Wilberforce the Snake

The soot of truth

bjbeamish — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 22:13:04 +0000

The Count of Mont Cristo is a gentleman! Modo he’s called. And Mahu.

Well he’s neither of these actually. He’s a tax collector from Wolverhampton called Japheth Steeltrouser. And furthermore he’s not even a tax collector. It’s merely a pretension to try and gain membership of the Garrick Club. He doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll be blackballed before you can say Jack Robinson. Which, incidentally, is his real name.

And so, worthy gentlefolk, we begin our story with Jack Robinson who, after years as a guttersnipe, sifting through rotten cabbages in the gutters of old London Towne had risen to become one of the city’s most noted artists, taking up residence with Damon Hearse in the trendy suburb of Shoreditch.

One October Wednesday, Jack Robinson awoke to the strains of a water violin being played in Mixolydian mode in the streets below. He availed himself of scarf and glove and went over and drew back the curtains, thus half-dressed and stuck his head through the window. Upon discovering that he had neglected to open this vitrine into the grimy city, he pulled out the fragments of glass from his neck and opened the window properly, which by now was letting in the chill air, and charging tuppence for doing so.

Jack Robinson, lifted his scarf from his shoulders and waved to the African Tree Frog below, who was playing the water violin in a most displeasing manner and seemed not to notice the protestations from above. Jack, therfore used speech to effect a kind of discourse betwixt him and the frog, which he believed to be a more successful approach than using thought alone. Upon hearing speech, the frog glanced up and was confronted with this semi-naked fellow waving a scarf and calling to him. He was sore afraid. Why he knew not, but neverthless sore afraid he was and so he began to creep away from the strange sight above him and to a second busker’s pitch around the corner.

Jack Robinson was a little disappointed by this, as his only chance at befriending a frog, for which he had dreamed all his life, seemed now hopelessly crushed. Swift came his resolve however, and he ran forth into the street in order to pursue this musical lizard, noticing not that his skin was on display to all who cared to look. And in Shoreditch, none cared to look.

However, the frog, who espied this naked lunatic, picked up his hat, wherein he was briefly pleased to discover the presence of 12 thrupenny bits and a shilling, clasped his water violin to his pulsating bosom and ran as fast as he could, not stopping to hop, lest it should slow his flight and jumped aboard a tram, bound for Camden Lock.

Jack Robinson therefore never was able to initiate a friendship with any amphibian after this bitter experience and died a very lonely man in abject misery on the shores of the Thames, 53 years later. The frog however went on to win several Brit Awards and a MoBO, even being nominated for an Academy Award for his work on the score of an all-newt adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo.

He never forgot Jack Robinson however and he died also, breathing his name in regret. However he pronounced his name wrong, so it was an utter waste of time.

When genuflection becomes tedious, turn to kippers!

bjbeamish — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 23:25:57 +0000

Yes, don’t start!

I know I’ve neglected you my fearsome oglers, and time out o’mind forsooth, but after only a year-long break and some much sought-after life happening betwixt entries, perhaps it is time to resume this load of old nonsense once again…

But first let me recount a most disturbing set of events that hath befallen any man since Attila the Hun first fell off his donkey.

It all began last Wednesday when first I laid eyes on my second-best forget-me-not. My first-best forget-me-not was out drinking and gambling in a crack house in Switzerland cutting up pictures of dogs. I’m thinking of moving him down to third-best.

Anyway, my second-best forget-me-not was smiling pleasantly in his grow-bag and lapping up the rays of the sun. Or are they particles? That, we will never know. Unless we ask Margaret Thatcher and I don’t know that I can be bothered. Well, particles or not, there it was, not only basking in the sun, but also humming a tune, which, I might add, for such a small flower is no easy task. It was humming the love theme from ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ which being only 30 microseconds long, consisted, to the untrained ear, of but one note.

Now who am I to be critical of my second-best forget-me-not when times are cold and the weather is hard? But today was no ordinary day. It was the 22nd of February – last Wednesday the 22nd of February, which was 2006 for those of you too lazy to work it out. Shame on you!

Anyway, the week before this 22nd of February I had decided to take a holiday in Paris, Texas and to my absolute surprise, when I checked in to Ol’ Zeke’s Motel I was beset by a gentleman sporting a face made of another man’s face and he did smite me with his chainsaw and lop off the only head to which I have become rather attached. And so my second-best forget-me-not’s humming was in very poor taste.

So I burned him to death. He’s still not said sorry.

Pickling badgers because the moon is full

bjbeamish — Tue, 09 Jan 2007 20:35:35 +0000

I lost my trousers on the Brighton Line…

So go the lyrics to one of the most well-known songs by Sir Thomas Winkle, poet, folksinger and extortionist of Old London Town.

I happened across Sir Thomas when I chanced to think about the year 1576 and became enveloped in the mists of thought which, because they couldn’t see properly, turned reality into the 16th century for a few hours.

Sir Thomas was a-thrumming his lute, but I ignorèd that, as verily I stumbled upon him. "Good sir," quoth he, "what art thou, a man? What strange attire you wear for a gentleman. Art thou from around these parts?" Well, I covered my inexplicable nakedness from him with a nearby rose and proceeded: "In sooth, Sir, I am from foreign parts. My name is Mark Sand-Spencer," I added with great haste and a fevered brow.

"Whither are these foreign parts, Squire?" he quoth, with what I thought was a little too much inquisitiveness.

"Wolverhampton," I quoth, growing as ruddy as the rose which covered my modesty.

"This is some fancy or witchcraft," he began, "sayest thou that thou comest from that place of dread and devilry? Then begone and takest not my calling card, for I have no wish to know thee stranger!"

And with that he took up his lute and stalked away muttering an incantation. I followed him not and lookèd around for other roses to keep out the growing chill. Presently I espied him returning hither with a bashful aspect.

"Sirrah?"

"I am come back to give thee this," he stuttered and placèd in my hand a leather-bound volume of his poetry.

"I thank thee even though thou art a bit weird, noble sir. What manner of fellow art thou? What is thy name?" saith I.

He then proceedeth to tell me that he be Sir Thomas Winkle, celebrated poet and minstrel. I believèd him not, but nevertheless thanked him and wishèd that he would quit my sight as I was getting hypothermia.

Before he left me for ever he trippèd over a small stone which amused me greatly I confesseth.

His book of poetry was some of the worst I hath ever read in my life and I tossèd it into a ditch. What a waste of time.

Bludgeoning the tin man until his springs pop out

bjbeamish — Wed, 29 Nov 2006 18:38:01 +0000

The juice box at my side has just walked away, and I’d only half-finished the rotten thing. Ungrateful bastard.

I mean to say, just what am I to do now? I shall simply shoot it when it’s far enough away not to hear the bang of my blunderbuss. Anyway enough of this rubbish…

Furthermore, gentle oglers, I would like to relate a tale to you all, which I hasten to add has no artificial preservatives or colours.

It happened to me today when I was returning the llama I borowed from the library. Well how else will I get time to read all those books? He read them for me and then recited them to me whilst asleep. I awoke this morning knowing all about Pip, Stella and Miss Haversham and the story of Great Expectations. Wot larks! So anyway upon awakening to the strains of the Zambezi nose flute which the llama had stolen from a gypsy the night before, I hurriedly dressed and set off for work, amongst other things which are too numerous to go into here, but will form an Appendix later if you’re interested. No? All right then. (see Appendix 1 anyway)

So having closed the door with an almighty bang I ran for the bus and had to clamber onto the roof as there was no room inside. I found, to my chagrin, that someone had waxed the roof so it was a little difficult to get a grip. Anyway, halfway along the Edgware Road, a car braked violently in front of us and we were forced to stop sharply, throwing me off the roof and right into a concrete mixer by the roadside. I was mixed with some sand and cement and churned up for about an hour until nicely smooth, then tipped out onto the Edgware Rd pavement, just outside Al-Maroushi, a Lebanese restaurant. I’m now trapped between the paving stones and people keep walking over me without so much as a by-your-leave!

If anyone’s passing I would be very grateful for some crumbs or loose change. Don’t bother to dig me up though as I rather like the view up the cassocks of passing priests.

Appendix 1

Brian also took a bath in a nearby mud geyser and dried himself in the crater of a nearby volcano. He then brushed his teeth with grit and battery acid and took a breakfast of gin, gin and Stolichnaya. He dressed himself in burlap and sacking and wore some pigskin shoes with laces made of lace and horsehair. Brian is 103.

Parcelling up Grandmama and sending her to Liberia

bjbeamish — Mon, 20 Nov 2006 22:52:04 +0000

Well strike me dead and call me Captain Ahab. I have returned, fellow oglers…

Although quite why I don’t know as this MSN Spaces flapdoodle is interminably slow! Damn its eyes! If only it had any to damn, then damn them I would!

Besides that I have purchased a new periwig which suits me admirably and makes me look something like Marie Antoinette, which is no bad thing. However it has been attracting sea-going vessels and monsters of the deep and such like. It’s the smell of fish I can’t stand and the endless tales of sea-faring and over lusty-halibut, from piratical types.

I had Captain Teach nest awhile in my beard the other day and he was most obscene in his choice of language, not to mention naughtily-designed ale mugs. He heeded me to list to a tale, which I took to mean listen to another of his rambling monologues which have cured my insomnia but aggravated my somnambulism, which, due to a technical error I can only mention once.

"Hearken ye," he began. I politely informed him that I was already hearkening.

"Aharr!" he spluttered, most unconvincingly. I wondered, if he was going on like this, whether he was in fact one of those fake pirates the radio has been reporting so many of recently.

"Aharr!" he repeated, " ‘Tis only the tale of an old sea-dog like myself, with a wooden leg and a scar from ear to chin…"

This was quite enough I decided and I cast him out of my beard and into the deep waters, which incidentally had begun to clamour around me, as they evidently missed the old pirate after an extended absence.

"Aharr!" he gurgled before drowning quite suddenly in his own over-acting.

I find now though that Calico Jack has hoisted the Jolly Roger in my beard instead, although he is a lot quieter than I imagined he would be, so he makes a welcome neighbour.

Mind you, he still hasn’t returned my cup of sugar.

Winning a game of Canasta with my third mother from Tajikistan

bjbeamish — Tue, 25 Jul 2006 19:43:51 +0000

Mini update-ette (with a Jubilee doillie adorned fess and pale sinister)

Yes yes yes I will, I will, but not right now. Viz my comment below and so forth. I am sending Mikrosopht to Coventry for a few weeks – that’ll show them – ha!

I love you all! Not like that – don’t be disgusting.

Well parch my periwig, it’s hotter than some newly-fenced silverware from the Queen Mum.

And speaking of which, it’s about time someone turned up the sun a few degrees, my chicken that is sizzling on my garage roof is nearly done. Gawd bless ‘er!

And another thing, whilst browsing through the ‘Sale Madness’ of Lillywhites of Piccadilly Circus the other day, I inadvertantly stole a dozen pairs of flippers and a snorkeling mask. The rough brute who grabbed me on the way out, looked to be entirely made of meat. I sank my teeth into his arm just to make sure, and what do you know? Bacon. So that was that. As soon as the milling hordes saw my discovery, they all wanted some, and then the ensuing maelstrom of cannibals was the most hideous sight since just about all of Tehran got hold of the body of the Ayatollah Khomeini in 1989.

I managed however to slip past the queues of slavering peasants, some of whom were carrying salt cellars and forks in anticipation. On I wandered through the chartered streets of Londern, which, briefly, was spelt differently due to a 10 minute law that had been introduced, and on to the market places of Petticoat Lane (have a banana). I sounded out the boisterous tradespeople there in their native brogue.

"Oi, cock," I began, " ‘ow abaht givin’ me a monkey for this lot, me ol’ china?" I said, indicating my stolen goods.

"You’re ‘avin’ a larf," he retorted. Which was odd because I wore a most serious countenance.

"I’ll give yer a pony. Take it or leave it yer James Blunt!"

Again I was mystified as to why he had thought I was a popular singer of the day. However I was determined to relieve myself of the booty, so I took a pony for it and rode it all the way home.

Took four bleedin’ hours! Would’ve been quicker on the District Line.

Ransoming Nell Gwyn for a hundred pounds and a rhubarb bush

bjbeamish — Tue, 11 Jul 2006 18:09:38 +0000

Alack gentle oglers! For I have been held against my will by a horde of Albanian diabolists, secreted in the caves of Wiltshire for nearly 4 weeks…

List ye to a tale if you will, that is so full of holes (the caves you understand) that it will leave you in disbelief.

I stalked out of the door of my abode one June morn, sporting the most magnificent maroon silk tie cast in a simple four-in-hand that I had thought some trouble might attract itself and stick to me like the glue from a well-boiled cow’s hoof. This was to be the case as I walked lustily through the meadow-like xiphoid grasses of Ealing Common. I saw a shambling bunch of lowlifes, guttersnipes and ne’er-do-wells muttering in some nameless caucasian brogue, pointing in my direction. Between their vile forms I could just make out the glinting of a blade or two.

I quickened my pace that seemed to run parallel to them as they turned toward me with a certain look in their eyes. My pace changed to a run as I darted down past the old Saxon church that lay ruined and menacing in a crumbling graveyard. It must have been the paving slabs under my feet which sent me flying onto the hard macadam roadway, but I felt a sharp bang on my forehead and knew no more…

I awoke in a bleary fog, my eyelids barely staying open with rheum as I groped about me. However there was no time for that, so I got up and looked around. I appeared to be in some sort of cavern or vug if you will, and through the gloaming I could make out some dim shapes, shifting noiselessly around. I broke out cold and clammy as my sinews stiffened, waiting for their deadly approach.

One of these shape-shifting behemoths loomed towards me and spoke in a grim soupy drawl:

"We represent Stourbridge, Kremlin & Thurrock, and we’re here to back your successful suit against Ealing Council for negligence."

"What negligence?" I blurted.

"You cracked your jaw on a loose paving slab on the Elm Grove Road. It was quite clearly the council’s fault. You’re sitting on millions in compensation!"

"Piffle!" I rejoindered, more in disblief than disparagement.

They continued to implore me to take up legal arms against the mighty bureaucracy and we disputed for days on end. Days stretched into weeks and I found myself short of breath, flagging and quite exhausted after interminable debate. Eventually I drew myself up, managing to summon all the eloquence I could muster and uttered a short but stinging "Bollocks to the lot of you!" and marched out of the cave into the flaring light, homeward.

I should say the council have had a lucky escape.

Thriving on just grease and finches in the Gobi desert

bjbeamish — Fri, 09 Jun 2006 15:36:47 +0000

I have just spent the week in Las Vegas as a fine array of gambling dice.

It all began on Thursday, which, this week, came before Friday. I thought no more about it. Anyway, on this Thursday, I chanced to visit a rather gnarled and twisted old man who carried a small rose bush wherever he went, down in Peckham Rye.

His gait was crooked and his hands were blue, but apart from that he looked just like your average frog. I was intrigue by his rose bush and engaged him in conversation.

"Bide a wee while ye sassenach," I began, in my best Aberdonian accent.

"Haud yer wheesht!" he snarled, and beckoned me indoors with his bent and cracked finger, peering all around him for snipers and ne’er-do-wells.

I followed the old man inside and he threw down the rose bush, which became a chair upon which he sat and looked me up and down as if I were a gnat with no sense of decency. His home was littered about the place with mouldy books and there were rushes strewn about the floor that quivered with the rats who scurried beneath them.

After a time he spoke again: "Do ye ken who I am, ye revolting specimen?"

I had to admit that I kenned not.

"Aye, a’ thought as much ye pusillanimous weed."

By this time, I was growing tired of his insults and turned on my heel to quit his dingy den.

"Haud a while, ye whoreson scab, and take a wee look at ma kitchen if ye will," he said with a glint in his eye.

Reluctantly I turned back and followed him into his kitchen with a heavy heart. No sooner had I walked through the door then he rushed behind me and pushed me all the way into his enormous waste disposal unit.

I was immediately cut into several thousand cubes, which smarted somewhat as I was not expecting it. As I fell into the dispensing tray at the bottom, the wizened old man gathered me into sacks and hauled me back into the living room and began to paint many small dots all over my cubed self.

Thence he bundled me into 14 parcels and sent me to Las Vegas whereupon I became several dice for casinos up and down Fremont Street.

I brought many people good luck that night, but I haven’t felt right since.

Fly-posting cats on slum walls to promote goodwill between wizards

bjbeamish — Sat, 27 May 2006 23:16:21 +0000

Today I was asked by the disembodied voice of Lenin to join his workers and foment revolution in Ealing.

This is why you can hear the sounds of the Bolshevik marching song playing in the background.

There were 800 of us, peasants, Stakhanovites, kulaks and cossacks all lumbering heavily along the Muscovite streets towards Аэрофлот who would fly us over to sack the bourgeoisie of west London. Unfortunately all my comrades were drunk on Stolichnaya and singing workers songs – consequently I couldn’t sleep for the whole journey. We arrived at Heathrow – soon to be renamed Trotsky Airport – and began our journey towards the Ealing front.

402 of our number were arrested at customs after they had several vodka bottles removed from rather delicate areas. Now halved, we 398 pressed on towards the Piccadilly Line – soon to be renamed The Karl Marx Memorial Line for the Oppressed Worker – and boarded the tube. However, 327 of my comrades hadn’t changed their Roubles before they came so could not pay for tickets. They were fined £1000 each and arrested.

The remaining 71 of us, boarded the train and marched out at Acton Town – shortly to be called Leningrad Central Station for the Soviet Revolution. We marched on through the streets of Acton and Ealing, singing songs about factories and collective farming. We marched and marched for so long that many men dropped dead from sheer exhaustion along the roads until there were very few of us left.

Eventually we both reached Ealing Town Hall, meaning to raze it to the ground and demand the emancipation of the workers and the control of the means of production to be handed to the proletariat!

However it was closed, so we had to go home.

Pulling all the feathers from the largest kleptomaniac hen in all of Argentina

bjbeamish — Fri, 19 May 2006 20:57:00 +0000

Today, whilst playing netball with a gang of heroin-addicted vandals from Cheam, I was knocked on the head by a passing heron.

It had apparently become violent due to ingesting too much Tartrazine after attempting to break the world record of drinking the most supermarket substitute cherryade in 24 hours. Needless to say it failed after going on a chemical-fuelled rampage that lasted longer than the world record attempt. Directly after the blow to my parietal cortex, I was thrust into a coal-back tunnel, drifting for what seemed like hours, hunched over in an L-shape. Eventually I arrived in Cheapside during the great plague of 1348.

A sight more loathsome and repellent I’ve yet to see. Shambling wrecks of people lurched about in filthy rags, some carrying the bodies of their family, in the crowded streets. The contents of all the privies had been emptied onto the verges and the place was brim full of the stench of effluent, trickling noisomely towards the houses from which it had come.

Some people were dragging the bodies of the relatives out into the streets and others were trying to rub off the white X’s on their doors as the number of plague victims continued to rise. The sight was so piteous and yet at the same time filled me with the utmost revulsion.

There were drooping figures, dragging their feet as they walked, their bodies covered in the most pustulent plague-sores, infected and inflamed, the sores covering the features of their faces so much that they barely looked human.

I hardly dared approach them, so much did they fill me with horror. After finding the courage however, I crept towards one man, whose only leg was a stump and who dragged himself on broken and rotting crutches along the dirty street.

‘Could you tell me where this terrible place is, fellow?’ I asked him, pressing a silver ducat into his withered and scarred hand.

‘Tis Cheapside, stranger. What business have you here?’ he replied in a throaty drawl.

‘I’m trying to find Tesco’s,’ I replied, ‘I’ve completely run out of asparagus.’

‘Well don’t ask me, I haven’t a bleedin’ clue,’ he snapped, and lumbered off, throwing my silver ducat onto a nearby corpse.

People are so rude nowadays.